Short Story

Light from the flame spits and sputters, forcing Graham to move the candle aside from his quiet work. For the third time that night the silence is broken as he crosses out the last line he wrote.Dandelions twirled around Calem like dancers…The old man rubs his ink-smeared temple. “'Dandelions and dancers', what the hell am I thinking?” The glow from the candle reaches through the frosted window. He watches as the light melts into a backdrop of snow and night. “No, let’s not do spring this time.”

Snowflakes twirled around Calem like dancers on a worldly stage. Gracefully they swept across his hood, flirting with the ground as if to foreshadow the coming of a greater snow. Yet he knew it was merely a trick of nature. Deep within the arms of the Weld Mountains the white hag still slept. When the grey waters of the Dwem’aimá seethe and a red sun breathes upon the forming dew, her day will come. Winter will besiege fall with sword and fire, for the shadow that folds from these mountains will cut hard into the throat of the world, releasing that cold word. Until then it is fall. “Mmmm. ‘When the grey waters of the Dwem’aimá seethe and a red sun breathes…’” Graham’s voice trails off. “’Dwem’aimá'. Sounds like what a demented man puts on his pancakes.”Snowflakes twirled around Calem… His pen clacks hard against the desk, punctuating the silence as several papers scatter from a draft. Graham sighs, shuffling out court files from a stack of horror stories. His hand comes to rest on a letter from the local constable. The noisy pen then quiets, rolling away. Graham sinks into the plush of the chair and the black of the room. “Not everything I have my hand in is entirely fiction, my dear,” he whispers. A dark stain bleeds onto the paper of his newest work. His hands trace the scratches and marks in his old desk while he leans over to retrieve the pen. It has been a long year, he thinks to himself. And it has only just begun.

Snowflakes? No. The police report still lies open on the desk. One page. One account. Written in a simple but heavy hand. Outside the weather is making a bid to replace the “snow” lost to the inkblot. The rattle of the window is louder than the sound of crumpling paper and determined writing. An unseen shadow arose. It came from within and fell over the land.

He leans closer to the candle. The tallow turns his nose and the thick smoke makes his eyes water. It blurs the lines. Dark shapes fold around him in the smoky haze of the little room. The old man shivers. Long fingers ink around dusty corners, through cover and hill. There is something here, cold and hard. This is hate, smoke arisen from the dying embers of unloved dreams. It was cold that night as well, and she had awoken him twice already. Money problems had made her hard to deal with. But her liver was the true victim. Graham slumps onto the desk. The light from the candle flickers and shakes, casting obscene shadows against the paneling of the window. “I’m creating a ghost for myself.” Tree branches, abused in the winter storm, mock him as he continues writing. Tendrils crept through the remaining covers, curling around the old man’s feet. Even through his woollies he could feel the bitterness and his body subconsciously shrank from it. She had been drinking more than usual that night. Yet the liquor did nothing for her restlessness, and come three in the morning she was up. This time he followed her, worried. Those stairs. But the shadow grew. The sound of his scribbling leaps through the sudden crackle of the candle flame, causing him to start. He shifts in his chair, fearing hidden things lying in wait for him everywhere. But the room is empty. It is always empty now. And at last when he was cowering near the headrest, cold hate touched warm flesh. The old man sits in silence as the chill wraps around him. He hovers so close to the candle that the flame reflects off of his forehead. “I’m never going to finish anything at this rate.” That damn report was still there. Graham snatches it, and holds it over the candle. “Liverpool Corporation Constabulary, 24th February 1833.” The blackening paper meant nothing, the contents burnt into his mind long ago. Sir, In reply to your request of the 8th, the Constabulary informs you that in provision of information touching upon the details of the 4th of January, that of which involves your person, that the last formal inquiry is hereby redacted. The coroner has substantiated your claim, and we have found you have answered all questions in good faith. And it is in this regard… “Best piece of fiction I was ever involved in,” Graham says sadly.